Chapter 11
The snow didn’t stop, and when the sun finally came up, Bull ignored all Rosie’s warnings and announced that he was going downstairs to check on the train schedule.
“Dinnae let anyone in this room if I’m no’ here, Rose,” he told her sternly even as Rosie rolled her eyes at his command. “And guard that briefcase—we’ve already almost lost that portrait once.”
Rose. He’d started doing that after she’d got him to the inn: not Rosie, the little lass that the family adored, but Rose. A woman.
Pushing aside the thought and deciding not to point out that the painting had almost cost him his life, a price she wasn’t particularly interested in paying, she said primly, “I will guard it with my life.”
His lips twitched wryly. “Dinnae be rash, lass. It’s the key to this case, but this case is no’ worth yer life, nor even a scratch on yer lovely skin.” He tugged on the door handle. “Lock this behind me, aye?”
Rosie followed his instructions, then pulled out Allie’s painting to study it yet again.
It was small, and the woman in the yellow dress was lovely, but…
Was it Rosie’s imagination, or did she look a little sad?
Now she looked more closely, the tip of the woman’s index finger was resting against the largest stone in the ruby necklace, and there was a tilt to her eyes that felt sorrowful.
Who was she? And why did that man so desperately want all her paintings?
Sighing, Rosie slipped the painting back into its oilcloth case, and in doing so, the emerald ring on her hand caught her eye.
It seemed most convenient that Bull had just happened to have that in this briefcase yesterday, and since she’d told the proprietor of this inn that they were engaged, it had seemed logical to keep it on.
Why did Bull have a ring like this? Where did he get it?
And should she keep wearing it?
For this part of their adventure they were playing a role which required her to wear it as a costume piece, the same as that mermaid gown he’d designed her.
But last night…last night hadn’t been a role. She’d been frantic to save Bull, not because she was playing his fiancée, but because he was Bull. And then this morning…
She hadn’t intended to take advantage of him, not at all.
In truth, Rose felt ridiculously guilty for what she’d done.
But when she’d woken on top of him, rubbing her softness against his hardness…
she couldn’t deny that it had felt remarkable.
She hadn’t come fully awake—fully understood what was happening—until her climax had burst over her and she’d pushed herself upright groggily.
Lost in a delicious dream, she’d taken her pleasure from a sleeping man. Not any sleeping man, but Bull. The man she…
The man she had rather a lot of complicated feelings for.
Rosie curled her fingers around the ring and stretched out on the bed.
It was impossible to deny she’d long held a flame for Bull Lindsay, no matter how much Merida teased her.
But that man she’d admired from afar, he’d been…
well, he’d been no more the true Bull Lindsay than she had been the wee lassie he remembered.
They’d both changed, and these last few days, getting to work with him, trust him, be trusted by him…
Well, she was rather afraid she now held an altogether different sort of flame for him.
Rosie drifted into sleep worrying she’d scared him off with her wanton behavior.
When Bull returned at noon with two pies, two mugs of ale, and a deck of cards, she was relieved to discover he hadn’t abandoned her. Perhaps something of her thoughts showed on her face, because he grinned and leaned over to kiss her cheek.
“Ye thought I’d leave ye here for yer father to come fetch, eh? Shut the door to keep the heat in, would ye, Rose? I brought us luncheon, and entertainment, and news.”
“Start with the news,” she told him eagerly, jumping to arrange the table for the pies and ale. Rose again. It felt…strange. Pleasant, for Bull to call her by her true name. As though he saw her true self. “Unless it is about my father, in which case, ale first.”
Chuckling, he complied. “The snow has stopped the trains. It’s still coming down out there, so we’re here for another day. The town appears to be taking it as an excuse to get drunk.” He lifted his ale. “Want to join me?”
They didn’t get drunk, but they did enjoy the pies and spent the afternoon playing cards. Rosie insisted on being taught more sleight of hand as they wagered stories and lessons, and by the supper hour, Bull announced she could palm a card well enough to fool anyone but him or Thorne.
They took the briefcase down to the taproom, where she spent a delightful few hours watching him make friends with the locals and entertain everyone with stories of his ridiculous escapades, which she had a horrible feeling were all true.
On their way back to their room, Bull put his arm around her waist. Rosie told herself it was because they were playing a role…but it felt wonderful. It felt right.
“What are ye thinking about?” he murmured.
And she scrambled to think of something to say, something sophisticated and relevant. Something about the case? “The man who ambushed us. Have you heard anything about him? Did he…”
Drown.
She swallowed. He’d pointed a gun at them, but she remembered the stories of danger and violence Bull had told downstairs, and realized as much as she enjoyed working with him, she didn’t want to wish death on another human.
But Bull hummed as he unlocked their door. “Nay, I’ve asked about—subtly, mind ye. Nae one has heard anything.”
“I wish we knew who—” A sudden thought, a memory, struck Rosie, and she sucked in a breath.
Perhaps Bull had the same exact thought, because his eyes were wide as he spun about to face her. “The paper.” His voice was hoarse, as if he were vibrating with excitement as well. “There was something in his pocket.”
“You picked his pocket?” Rosie breathed. Her smile bloomed as she shook her head and hurried toward her overcoat, hung beside his in the corner. “That is where it came from…”
Then Bull was at her side, hovering as she triumphantly pulled the crumpled—and still-wet—bill from her pocket. “Here,” she said eagerly, turning back toward the small table beside the hearth. “You were clutching this in your glove when you pulled yourself from the water.”
“Aye,” he murmured grimly, helping her carefully spread the paper out. “I’d forgotten it. Forgotten all but returning to…”
When he trailed off, Rosie slowly straightened, staring down at the top of his head. Returning to…her?
She remembered the pleasure she’d taken from him that morning, the way he’d trusted her to protect him last night. Should she feel ashamed, or proud?
“It’s a bill from a tailor,” Bull announced, his fingers brushing over the sodden paper. “I can make out the prices and services, but no’ the name of the clothier.”
Shaking herself, Rosie peered at the bill. “Our attacker was a tailor?”
“Perhaps.” Bull’s index finger tapped the middle of the paper as he read, “My lord will please remit… That’s all I can make out.”
“I suppose we should be pleased he did not have time to send it, because it is our only clue to our mysterious blackmailer’s identity.”
Humming thoughtfully, Bull straightened. “We’ll allow it to dry slowly, and perhaps we’ll be able to make out more of it tomorrow. For now, though…” He pressed a fist to his mouth to cover his yawn. “Bed? I will take the sofa.”
“The bed is big,” she objected, but he just smiled ruefully and dropped a brief kiss to her lips.
“Aye, that it is, but I dinnae trust myself with such a tempting bedmate.”
That kiss hadn’t been enough, and Rosie found herself swaying toward him. “And what if…what if your bedmate does not mind being tempting?”
Something flashed in his stormy eyes—something fierce and feral, all at once—before he winced and turned away. “Then I will have to be twice as strong.”
Rosie fell asleep that night alone, huddled beneath the blankets and fully clothed, worried he had some inkling of what she’d accidentally done that morning and was offended by it. By her. By her lust for him.
The next day was very much the same, except they both spent the morning in the taproom playing cards with the locals, Bull holding the briefcase containing Allie’s painting in his lap.
Since there were so many people around them they didn’t wager stories, but she still enjoyed seeing him in his element as the snow continued to come down.
The mysterious bill was dried, but offered no more hints as to their attacker’s identity.
And Bull slept on the sofa again, so she fell asleep feeling…not cold. Hollow.
He’d kissed her easily enough, but was that merely a role? Now they were alone, did he not want to touch her? Or was it as he’d said, and he didn’t trust himself not to be tempted, even if she very much wanted to tempt him?
She squeezed her eyes shut, praying for sleep, and wondering if she needed to take drastic action and seduce a man she was falling in love with.
On the third day they awoke to sunshine. The trains were finally running. Their cozy little interlude was over.
Rosie oversaw the packing of their trunks while Bull arranged for transport to the station, and soon they were back on the train, trundling across the snow-blanketed Highlands. Then they did it all in reverse, and hired a carriage—enclosed, thank fookdiggle—to take them toward Endymion.
“It’s strange,” she began as they settled against the squabs, both of them with their legs tucked beneath heavy blankets to mitigate the chill inside the carriage. “Coming back here as a detective and actress.”
Bull snorted. “Actress?”
“Well, I have always been the daughter of a Duke,” Rosie pointed out, watching Bull flipping a small blade absentmindedly as he stared out of the window. “And that was all anyone ever saw me as. But now I am more.”
“Ye’ll always be more,” came the quiet reply.
Heat flickered up her spine as she hoped—